


Riq IV: Revisited

by Hoodoo



Series: The Bar at the End of the Universe [6]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Collars, Explicit Language, F/M, Fanart, Leashes, Lots of Unnamed Morties, Lots of Unnamed Ricks, Public Humiliation, Spanking, leather harness, mention of cunnilingus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-02-10 13:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12912858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Riq IV is walked through the Citadel wearing his leather harness and collar. You're holding the leash.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pokey_jr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/gifts).



> Pokey_jr requested this scenario, and I'm glad--it was a ton of fun to write!

There’s a little penciled-in star on a date on your calendar. You know it was there—put it there yourself, as a matter of fact—but it had been forgotten until you were flipping through the pages trying to find when you scheduled your dentist appointment. It took you by surprise, and you wondered what, exactly, you should do about it.

Then, reading a book and eating a popsicle and generally not watching where you were going, you trip over something in your bedroom.

“Son of a—“ you grumble. You should tidy this place up more often.

You start to toe whatever made you stumble out of the way when it dawns on you exactly what it is.

Somebody’s trying to tell you something.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

You don’t have much time to prepare. Truthfully, that was probably for the best. What you dreamed up is going to require superhuman confidence, and if you think about it too much, you’re going to talk yourself out of it.

Pulling together an outfit from what you own is easy: pushup bra, tank top, short skirt. You debate fishnets, but finally the argument of not wearing them wins because they chafe. Heels are a pain, so your leather boots complete the ensemble.

You also head out to the pet supply store for a few purchases, and contact a few Ricks; you have to both call in some favors and make some promises. 

Hey, getting to the Citadel isn’t easy. You do what you have to.

And now you’re here.

It’s immense and intimidating, just as you’d expect a place designed by and for Ricks to be. 

“You got this, babe?” the indiscriminate Rick who’d brought you here asked. “You sure you don’t wa-want me to escort you over?”

“No, I’m good,” you say, mostly trying to convince yourself. 

“All right. S-s-ee you next w-week, then. You still have that blue body paint?”

“And the headband with antenna. Just for you, Rick.”

He grinned and you kissed his cheek. With a pat on your ass, he wandered off.

“I got this,” you say under your breath. You adjust your grip on the duffel bag you’re holding, and set off towards the biggest, gaudiest building of them all: the seat of the Citadel’s power.

The Council of Ricks tower.

On your way you garner attention, either cat-calls and suggestive lewd comments, or hard stares and angry lewd comments. Morties just stare, slack-jawed. Maybe you should have taken Rick up on his offer to escort you; it must be rare for someone not a Rick or a Morty to just _be_ here. 

No! you tell yourself. You are doing this!

You ignore anyone who calls to you and anyone who follows you. By the time you’re at the tower’s steps, you’re leading a small group like you’re the damn Pied Piper of Ricks. 

They wander off, however, when it’s obvious this was your goal and you’re going in. A couple make mention they’ll be waiting for you when you come back out, baby.

Inside, despite its high ceilings and gilded everything, the place has the air of every bureaucratic office you’ve ever been in: sterile, dry, no nonsense.

You walk over to a station where a uniformed Rick is sitting, looking bored.

“Councilman Riq IV?” you ask.

“Sign in, honey. I gotta search your bag.”

You sign the pad of paper he indicates and put your bag on the desk. He unzips it and rummages through. He glances up at you in askance when he sees what’s inside, but doesn’t verbally say anything so you don’t either. He zips it shut again.

Jerking his thumb back behind him, he tells you, “Elevator’s over there. Ninth floor.”

You thank him; he smirks. 

Elevators are elevators. There’s a list of different Council members and their floor. You’re a little surprised there’s no lift attendant in this extravagant place, but it’s nice to have a private moment to collect yourself and mentally prepare for what you have planned.

The door slides open and you’re in a reception area. There are no other visitors, just a Morty behind a desk. Steeling yourself, you walk over.

He obviously knew you were there, but continues to tap on a keyboard for a moment before deigning to acknowledge you.

“Yes?” he says, managing to make the word a rare combination of bored and insolent.

“I’m here to see Riq IV.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” you hedge, drawing out the word, “but—“

“Riq IV is very busy,” Morty tells you mechanically. 

“Could you just call him? Just call and tell him—“

Morty continues, interrupting you again. “He’s a very busy Rick and doesn’t have time for—“ He makes a big show of looking you over, condescendingly, “—hookers.”

A _hooker?!_ Who did this Morty think he is? 

You drop your bag and slam your palms down on his desk. 

“Listen here you little shit!” you snap at him. “You pick up that phone and you call Riq and tell him exactly who is standing outside his door. Do it!”

With wide eyes and a bit of a tremble, Morty doesn’t hesitate to pick up the receiver immediately, just as you told him to do. You soothe your bruised conscious about yelling at the poor kid by telling yourself he just needed to understand how serious you are. It had nothing to do with the idea that Morties just need to be kept in their place, you continue to try to lie to yourself. 

You listen to the one-sided conversation. Morty has lost his indifferent attitude.

“S-s-sir? Sir? I have s-someone-someone here who insists on seeing you—“ There was a pause while he listened for a moment before Morty continued, “Yes sir. No sir. I understand, sir. But-but geez, she isn’t taking n-no for an answer—“

Another pause while his boss interrupts him. You can hear a familiar but muffled voice from the earpiece.

“Her name?” Morty asks, obviously repeating something said to him. He raises his eyebrows to question you.

You tell him, and he relays it. There is a slight moment of quiet while Morty waits, then:

“Yes sir! Of course, my m-m-mistake! I will send her in!”

He sets the receiver back in its cradle and sits quietly for a second. When he looks up at you he still looks a little awed. 

“Go right in, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” you tell him sweetly. You pick up your bag again and head for the door.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Opening it, you find Riq sitting at his own desk. You shut the door softly behind yourself.

“I can’t believe you showed up here, in the Citadel,” he says, by way of welcome. “You-you get some uxorious Rick, some p-pussy-whipped Rick to sneak you in?”

That little encounter with snobbish Secretary Morty amped you up and put you in the right mindset for this. You didn’t realize it at the time, but it was just the kick start you needed to pull this off.

“That is inappropriate, Pet!” you correct him loudly. You don’t know how thin the walls are, and a bit of you hopes you’re loud enough for Morty outside the door to hear it.

The patronizing look slides off his face. Riq’s eyes widen before he drops his gaze to the desk before him, just like before when he was only allowed to look at you when given permission.

“And I come into a room—a room you know I’m going to enter, a room you’re _expecting_ me, and you’re sitting in a chair? You’ve forgotten so much that you don’t remember to be on your knees waiting for me? Or are you being _willfully_ disobedient?”

Your voice, already loud, rises higher with the last question.

There’s an air of uncertainty in the room. Impatiently, expectantly, you stamp your foot, and there is no more hesitation. Riq scrambles out of his chair, out from behind his desk, and towards you, practically tripping over his robes in his haste to obey. He skids into position at your feet, kneeling, hands on his thighs, eyes dutifully on the floor in front of your feet.

Immediately you praise him. “Good boy!”

His face is downward, but you can see a blush creeping on his skin.

“Have you missed me, Pet?”

“Yes, Mistress, yes I-I-I have.”

“Hmm. Well, I thought that today was a special day and I wanted to do something as a special treat for you!”

“Thank you, Mistress!”

“So! I thought about what you might like best,” you continue pensively, like you hadn’t practiced this speech before psyching yourself up to do this. “I thought: Pet would like to be dressed in his harness, and his little shiny briefs, and he would like to be spanked. It’s been a while since you’ve had a spanking, hasn’t it?”

“Y-y-yes! Mistress!”

“And you deserve one, for forgetting where you should be when I enter a room, don’t you?” His inadvertent insubordination played well into what you had planned. 

“Yes Mistress. Oh, yes, please!” he answered, his voice eager.

Like you were still musing, you tell him, “But I think, even though it’s been so long, you should not climax until I give permission.”

“Of course not, Mistress!” he agreed, as if the idea was abhorrent.

“Hmm,” you say, considering. “That may be difficult, Pet. Especially since after the spanking, I would like you to eat my pussy. And if you don’t do well, I may need to spank you again. What do you think?”

Riq hesitates, but you can tell it’s because his throat is dry. He swallows and shifts a tiny amount, and even though his ornate robes covered everything, the motion is one you’re familiar with and you knew meant he was aroused.

“You may look at me, Pet.”

He obeys immediately. His face is flushed and his pupils are blown. A track of drool on his chin shines in the overhead light.

“What do you think, Pet?” you repeat, and put a hand on his cheek. Your thumb gently wipes away the spit from his lip and he presses his mouth desperately to your palm.

“Yes, oh _yes_ Mistress!” he practically sobs.

You smile down at him.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

You pull the leather harness out of your bag, and straighten it back into shape while he disrobes. You hand him his thin satin briefs—any Rick in black underwear was a massive turn on for you; the color was so stark against their pale skin—and he slips into them. He maneuvers into the harness by himself, and takes extra care to make sure the buckles are properly adjusted and lying flat. 

He even takes a second to polish the o-ring that sits in the middle of his chest.

Morty walks in while he’s rubbing the metal with his official Councilman robe.

“I wasn’t sure if you and your guest would want coffee or tea or— _jesus christ!”_ Morty interrupted himself as he got a good look at what his intrusion exposed him to. 

“Get out, Morty,” Riq told him mildly, as if the boy wasn’t backpedaling and muttering something about dumping bleach in his eyes. Riq calls after him, “And clear my schedule for the rest of the day!”

He had to raise his voice to be heard over the slamming of the door. 

Riq finished buffing the metal to his satisfaction and dropped to his knees on the floor again in front of you.

You look him over. “Very nice, Pet. I see, however, you’re not wearing the collar I gave you?”

He flinches at his oversight, then hangs his head. “Mistress, I-I . . .”

“It’s fine,” you soothe, petting his head. “I bought you a new one! As part of your special treat!”

You retrieve the new collar you purchased. It’s not exactly the same as young Punk Rick wore, but you figured that was for the best. That was in the past—his and yours—and you didn’t need to complicate things any more like you did previously.

You buckle the leather collar around his neck.

“And there’s a matching leash!” you tell him.

You snap it onto the collar’s d-ring and only allow a little bit of slack between him and yourself. With him on the floor in front of you, dressed only in leather and satin, he makes a pretty sight. Experimentally you lift the leash so it pulls just a little, and hold it taut against his cheek.

He only moves his head minutely to the side.

“I will allow you to choose, Pet, how you’d like to follow me. Hands and knees, or upright.”

“Hands and knees, Mistress—“ he starts to say, but you interrupt him.

“However, we have a long way to go and I would recommend—for the sake of your knees and palms—that you walk instead of crawl. But it is your choice.”

You watch his brow furrow.

“Oh, we’re not doing this here, Pet,” you inform him, as if it just occurred to you that you should explain yourself more completely. “This is your place of work! I thought it would be best—thought you would enjoy it best—in a more familiar environment. 

“And, as I’ve been reliably told that there is a portal dampener within this building, and it extends for a five hundred yard radius _around_ the building, we’re walking until we can use a portal gun to get to my flat.

“So, will you crawl or walk, Pet?” you prompt.

“I will . . . walk, Mistress,” he whispers.

That pretty blush is rising again. Now, due to his state of undress, you can see it rises from his chest to his neck. You can also see the bulge in his briefs. He can’t lie and say he’s not aroused by the thought of walking on a leash through the Citadel.

You tug the leash and he gets to his feet. Although he’s taller than you, he keeps his eyes downcast, like a good boy.

“Do you know why I showed up and giving you this treat today, Pet?” 

His forehead wrinkles again, but less deeply than before. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head. When he reaches the answer, a tiny smile tics at the corner of his lips. 

“Because it’s my birthday, Mistress?” He intones it like a question, but he knows it’s correct.

“Yes,” you agree. “And that means it’s every other Rick’s birthday too.”

He nods slowly, trying to understand the connection you’re making.

“You being a good Pet and walking nicely on this leash will be a birthday present for them.”

He can’t help flicking his gaze to yours for a brief second. You can’t categorize the expression on his face, can’t imagine what might be going through his mind, and you can’t help grinning.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

You make him wait while he’s standing with the leash hanging down, like a horse that’s ground-tied, while you fold his robes neatly and load them into your now empty bag. You also heft his portal gun and wonder whether to pack it away too, or just carry it out in the open. You decide it fits in the bag.

Finally you take the leash back up. You pause and give yourself an internal pep talk: you can do this. You are doing it! All you have to do is open that door, walk to the elevator, then walk out the lobby and down the steps and down the street. With a mostly naked, leather bound Riq on a leash. Nothing to it. You gotta own this; you started it.

In your hesitation, Riq stands quietly. When the moment stretches, he shifts minutely from one foot to the next and there’s the sound of a breath, like he was going to say something.

You consider asking him what he wanted to say, but you can figure it out. 

You give yourself a shake, and give a gentle tug on the leash. “Let’s go, Pet.”

With a hand that only trembles a little, you open the door and walk through with Riq at your heels.

Morty is back at his desk and trying very hard to keep his eyes on some paperwork, but he can't seem to help throwing little glances at the two of you. You give him a nod that’s more confident than you feel, and move past. Riq doesn’t acknowledge his secretary. Down the elevator. You take nine floors to take deep breaths and try to will your heart to stop beating so fast.

You exit with Riq. Your footsteps sound so loud on these marble floors. Passing the Security Guard Rick’s station, he barely looks up from his magazine but says in the same bored tone as before, 

“You gotta sign out too, honey . . .”

His voice trails off as he sees who’s with you. His mouth shuts with a snap. Like upstairs, Riq doesn’t acknowledge him.

You sign the pad of paper on the desk. “Anything else, Rick?”

He clears his throat. “Uh, uhm, no, no. That’s-that's all. Thank you, honey.”

“Thank you, _ma’am,”_ you correct him. You have a part to play; might as well commit to it. “You don’t know me well enough to call me honey.”

He manages to tear his eyes away from Riq. “Y-yeah. Uh, yes. Sorry. Thank you, ma’am,” he repeats.

You give him a bright smile. “Good boy.”

You don’t give him a chance to say anything else but turn away and head out the double doors.

The sunlight makes you blink for a moment to adjust your vision. There’s no turning back now. You step outside with a poise you’re mostly faking. 

You weren’t sure what you were expecting—besides a near lethal dose of self-inflected embarrassment—but the complete silence was almost a relief. No cat-calls, no lecherous come-ons. Not even any of the blatant anger from some of them you’d gotten coming in. Instead, the atmosphere is almost vibrating with shock.

Riq continues to walk meekly behind you. Getting down the steps, the Ricks and Morties on the streets have stopped whatever they’d been doing, halted wherever they were going, ended any conversation they were having, to watch this two person parade you’re leading.

The silence doesn’t last. Murmurs, like wind rippling through a field, start as you pass by. Whether they’re mumbling to themselves or whispering to the next closest Rick, you can’t tell. And suddenly, you realize maybe it isn’t you you should be concerned about.

You stutter-step a moment, causing a chain reaction of Riq doing the same behind you to stop before he walks into your back. You spin on your heel to face him. He averts his gaze.

The mutterings from the crowds grows, although individual words can’t be determined. Yet. You know eventually these Ricks are going to get over their shock and find their voices. 

“Mistress?” Riq asks quietly, in a slightly worried tone.

“Are you all right?” you ask him in return. It’s out of character, it’s nothing like the assertive dom that you’re supposed to be portraying, but—

Riq’s eyes dart to yours but don’t hold your gaze. “Yes Mistress,” he answers. His voice isn’t worried any longer, simply truthful. “Of course I am.”

You study him. He’s not lying. His face is flushed, his breath is coming faster, and you can see a vein in his neck pulsing with his heart rate. Those could be signs of nervousness or fear, but he’s still sporting a semi-hard cock in those briefs you love. He likes pleasing you, and is enjoying this humiliation.

“You’re very good, Pet,” you praise quietly, and stroke his cheek. As always, he nuzzles into your palm.

Now the whistles start.

Turning on your heel, you give a slight tug to get him moving again. He complies under more jeers and shouts. 

“N-n-nice collar, bitch!”

“I thought I’d seen everything!”

“No way I’d be ca-caught dead, caught dead like that—fuckin’ submissive weirdo—“

It seems to you, however, now that you actually listen to what the other Ricks are saying, that most are supportive or jealous or offering to follow along, if you’d allow them. There’s many more: “Lookin’ good!” and “I-I w-wish I was that lucky!” and “Would that fit me, baby—haha, of course it would!” and “Holy _shit_ that is _hot!”_ than the cynical, asshole Ricks.

Your confidence surges. Maybe you should have worn the heels. They would have added a bit more swing to your hips, giving Riq behind you a better show, but then again, maybe being saucier would have driven this mob into a frenzy you don’t want to deal with. You glance back at him, over your shoulder, and he barely hides the tiny smile that flits across his face.

Then, before you realize it, you’re well past the dampening field. You’ve still got a crowd that’s tagged along like you and your Pet are a magnet. As you extract the Riq’s portal gun, another murmur snakes through the gathered Ricks and again, it’s much more appreciative and turned-on that you’re handling the technology so easily than not. 

Without giving the throng another thought, you open the portal and step through, Riq so close on your heels you can feel his breath in your hair.

The swirling green and yellows envelop you, then you step into your living room.

It seems very quiet now.

You turn to Riq, who drops like he’s been poleaxed to his knees in front of you.

“You know, Pet, I brought your robes, thinking that you’d just go back by yourself,” you tell him. “But maybe I should walk you back just to make sure you get home safely. What do you think?”

Riq can’t hide his grin or his erection at the suggestion.

You can’t stop smiling either, and order him into your bedroom so the real fun can begin.

_fin._


	2. Artwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't seem to get the image of Riq in a leash out of my head, so the darling porkchop (https://porkchop-ao3.tumblr.com or https://archiveofourown.org/users/PorkChop/pseuds/PorkChop) helped me by creating this fantastic artwork.


End file.
